by John Benteen
“Hell, yes,” Fargo said. He looked at Meredith. “Isn’t that what you heard about me in the first place? Isn’t that why you came to me in El Paso?”
“But... how the hell could I trust you?” Meredith bit down on his cigar. “I could use you, yes; the two of us make a good pair. But how could I trust you?”
“Pay me,” Fargo said tersely. “As long as you pay me, you can trust me. That’s the way I operate, Meredith.”
“I know,” Meredith said. “I know. But—”
Crystal’s voice, catlike, spiteful, broke in. “You’re not going to fall for it, Ted!”
“Listen.” Meredith’s voice was low, intense, almost a whisper. “Listen, I could use him. I need somebody to side with me in this deal with Hernandez. And I’ve seen Fargo in action; I’d rather have him than anybody I know.” He began to pace. “Hell, yes, if Hernandez had got to him first, made him the best offer, don’t you think he’d have fought with Hernandez against us anyhow? And five per cent—” He turned to Fargo. I’d make it ten, damn you! If I could be sure of you, it’d be worth ten to me! That’s a lot of silver, Fargo! One hell of a lot.”
“I know it is,” said Fargo. “I want it.” He took the cigar from his mouth. “I don’t hold any grudge, Meredith. And the time’s gonna come when you’re going to need somebody with you. Somebody like me. Think about it.”
“I am thinking about it.” Meredith halted. “But there’s still the matter of convincing Hernandez.”
“I can do that,” Fargo said. “If I kill his man and tell him where I hid the girl.”
Meredith stared at him. “I watched you with her, Fargo. You acted like you thought a hell of a lot of her. You’d do that—with five dozen bandidos out there waiting to get their hands on her?”
Fargo shrugged. “She was somebody in my blankets—no more. I’ve got to prove two things to Hernandez: that I’m the best fighting man he ever saw and that, if he’ll take me, I’ll be on his side. I’ll tell you where she is now, if that’ll help you swing weight with Hernandez.”
“It’ll help,” Meredith said.
“Ted, for God’s sake, you’re not going to actually let him sucker you in!” Crystal’s voice was furious.
“The two of us need each other,” Meredith said. “Be quiet and let me think.” He frowned. “All right, Fargo, Where’s the girl?”
“I hid her with food and water in a crack in the west rim; it’s all covered with brush, but there are three big yuccas and a nest of boulders right in front of it.”
“Hell, yes, I know the place, but I’d forgotten it. It would have taken days to find her there.” Meredith’s frown vanished. “All right, Fargo, I’ll tell Hernandez and he’ll send riders. Once he’s got a woman, he’ll be easier to deal with—and you’ll be safer,” he told Crystal, “If she’s there—and you can beat this Rodriguez he’s so proud of, I’ll go to bat for you. And if you stick with me, Fargo, I’ll swear I’ll make you a millionaire!”
“I always wanted to be a millionaire,” Fargo said. ‘I’ll stick with you, Meredith.”
“You’ll have to,” Meredith said, almost as if to himself. “Hernandez has got to because I can get the silver out of the ground. You’ve got to because I—and only I—can make you rich.” He looked at Fargo with narrowed eyes. “Only—I double-crossed Delaney. What makes you think I won’t double-cross you again, too?”
Fargo grinned coldly. “Because I ain’t Delaney. And you know that, too.”
Suddenly Meredith grinned back. “Yes, by God. I always said we understood each other.” Then his grin vanished. “Kill that Mexican, Fargo! You kill him, you hear? Because I need you.”
Fargo nodded. ‘I aim to kill him,” he said quietly. Then Hernandez was back in the doorway. He looked from Fargo to Meredith. Then he said, smiling: “Senor Fargo, your challenge has been accepted. Antonio awaits with pleasure the opportunity to cut your gringo guts out and leave them on the ground for the foxes.”
Fargo got up stiffly from the table. “Let me have a minute or two to limber up. Then give me my own knife, and your friend Antonio can have his chance.”
Outside, in the glaring sun and the dust of the yard, forty eager men, the rest on guard or seeking Juanita, formed a circle twenty feet in diameter. They parted to let Fargo through, then their ranks closed. Hernandez, slim, elegant, produced the Batangas knife. “An excellent weapon. If you try to use it for any reason other than to defend yourself against Antonio, twenty guns will shoot you down.”
Fargo said nothing, only flipped the handles back. A kind of sigh went up from the crowd at the sight of that ten-inch blade glittering in the sun.
Then Hernandez said: “Antonio comes.” He stepped back. And again the crowd parted and Fargo’s opponent entered the ring.
He was young, not over twenty-four, but his face already bore the scars of the knife-fighter. So, also, Fargo saw, did his wrists and hands. He was stripped to the waist, and Fargo looked at his arms. They were long, very long; that was bad. And his muscles rippled lithely and he moved with grace, swift, yet controlled, like a hunting cat. His flat, Indio face was creased by a confident smile, revealing bad, snagged teeth, and his eyes displayed plenty of craft and intelligence.
He spat into the dust “Well, gringo,” he said, “you are ready now to die, eh?”
“If you’re man enough to kill me.”
From the sash around his waist, Antonio pulled a Bowie knife with a twelve-inch blade. It glittered in the sunlight as he threw it high, twirling end over end, caught it by the grip without even looking. He spat again. “I think so,” he said.
Hernandez came forward. “The fight will begin when I give the signal. It will end when there is only one man left alive. Do you understand?”
“I understand,” both men spoke. A kind of sigh went up from the crowd, and now there was beginning to be some betting, some money backing Fargo.
Fargo backed to one side of the ring, Antonio to the other. Hernandez, Colt in hand, stepped clear. Suddenly it was very quiet. Somewhere in the distance, a crow cawed; that was all.
Hernandez thumbed back the hammer. Then he pulled the trigger. The roar of the gun was thunderous.
Neither Fargo nor Antonio hurried. They came forward to meet each other slowly, knees bent, bodies crouched, left hands out to balance, blades glittering in their right hands slightly out thrust, parallel to the ground.
Warily they circled each other, each with all the intensity of his being focused, concentrated on the knife-blade in his opponent’s hand. Fargo saw the beads of sweat on Antonio’s forehead, the gleam of anticipation in his eyes. Then Antonio lunged.
It was a short, exploratory lunge; it stopped before the blade was in range. Fargo had expected that; he made no move either to parry or withdraw. He learned that Antonio was very quick; Antonio learned nothing about him except that he was an experienced knife-fighter.
Antonio licked his lips. Next time, it would be serious. Fargo tensed, waited. Antonio came at him quickly, the knife like a striking snake. Fargo caught the blade on the Batangas knife, sheered the stroke away, slashed in himself, missed. They backed off.
Then Antonio came again. Now he came in fast and thrust again and again and again, retrieving each thrust with a slash. Fargo caught one on the blade again, let the second go between arm and ribcage, but the third drew blood; it raked the skin of his torso. A shout went up from the onlookers. Antonio jumped back just as Fargo thrust at him, braced and balanced himself for a new assault.
Fargo came at him, seeking an opening, Antonio was covered, wheeled away. Again they stalked each other. Fargo thrusting and thrusting again, Antonio, like a ghost, like a tatter of fog, avoiding each thrust. In the meantime, he cut Fargo on the bicep of the right arm. It was not a serious cut, in a way; but in another way, it was very serious. The blood would run down the arm to the hand. The knife-handle would grow slippery with it. That would leave Fargo at a disadvantage.
Fargo felt no pain from either
cut. He was watching Rodriguez’s knife, waiting. He went on the offensive again. Rodriguez stepped away, laughing; then when Fargo was off balance, came in with terrible speed. Fargo felt the wind of the big blade’s passage as it moved by him; he thrust at Antonio, but Rodriguez, off balance as he was himself, then, wheeled away in time.
Like two fighting cocks, they kept on circling. Each was beginning to learn how the other fought; each was looking for an opening. Fargo’s forearm was wet with blood. The men were shouting, yelling, still betting.
“Well, gringo?” Antonio taunted. “Won’t you come and fight?”
Fargo spat.
“Then I will come to you!” And Antonio darted in again, arm a blur. Now! Fargo thought, and in that instant, he flipped his right hand. His left, equally sure, snatched the knife out of the air; now all his weight changed sides and so did his defense, and before Antonio knew what had happened, he was vulnerable to Fargo’s attack from the left. Equally comfortable, equally balanced like that, Fargo stepped in, found his opening and struck. Antonio halted suddenly, his knife-blade poised, as his own rush took him squarely to the point of the Batangas knife. Fargo felt it slide in between ribs, grate on bone. Then he withdrew it quickly, struck again.
This time the blade caught Antonio in the low flank. It went in up to the hilt There was no danger of its getting caught on, bone. Fargo twisted it and Antonio screamed.
Then he staggered back, his whole body from the wounds down suddenly turning red. The Bowie dropped from his hand. He sat down heavily in the dust, staring at Fargo, his eyes bulging. He put his hands on the stab wounds, trying to staunch the blood. He looked uncomprehendingly from Fargo’s right hand to his left. Then Fargo saw comprehension come into his eyes. He knew his mistake now. He had not allowed for the possibility that Fargo could use either hand. It had cost him his life. He screamed again and stretched out in the dust. His body rose and fell; his boots drummed. Fargo stood there, braced. He half-expected to be shot for winning.
But nobody moved, no shot came. Everyone stared at the awful spectacle of Antonio’s dying. It took him a long time. When he stopped screaming and his boots were still, the hush of the morning was profound.
Hernandez raised the Colt, pointed it at Fargo. But with his other hand, he crossed himself. Then, slowly, he walked toward Fargo. “Drop the knife,” he said.
Fargo let it fall.
Hernandez kicked it away. “You did not say that you could use your left hand as well as your right.”
“It was not my business to say. It was Antonio’s to allow for that. He defended himself only from a right-handed attack. That was stupid.” Fargo wiped sweat from his face. “I thought you said he was a fighting man.”
“He was my best,” Hernandez said.
“Well,” said Fargo, “now you’ve found a better one.”
Hernandez stared at Fargo. Then, slowly, he lowered the gun. “Yes,” he said. “Perhaps I have.” He looked at Meredith. “You want this man to work for you?”
“Yes,” Meredith said. “He’ll be valuable to both of us.”
Hernandez nodded. “I think you may be right.” His eyes met Fargo’s. “Very well. You join us. You will be given back your weapons. You will take my orders. And…until I am satisfied with you, you will be watched, understand? You will be closely watched.”
Fargo grinned faintly. “You don’t need to watch me,” he said. “All you need to do is pay me.”
“Very well,” said Hernandez. Then he took Fargo’s shirt from the gun barrel on which it hung. “Bandage up your wounds and put this on. Then I will show you what you have saved yourself from with this knife of yours. The morning’s sport is still not over.”
Chapter Eight
Delaney screamed.
Buried up to his neck in the sand of a dusty flat, he screamed and kept on screaming. The sunlight shimmered and rippled over the flat; there was brush all around; and yet the head, the weird-looking head, seeming to sit on the ground on the stem of its neck, stood out clearly, even at five hundred yards.
Beside Fargo, who had not yet been given back his weapons, Hernandez said: “You see? You see what your skill with the knife has kept you from?” He turned to Crystal, who sat erect, very rigid in the saddle on his other side. “Perhaps, Senora, you do not want to watch this?”
“I want to see everything that happens to the son of a bitch,” Crystal said coldly.
Hernandez stared at her, as if he could not quite believe that such a woman really existed. “Then watch,” he said tersely and raised his hand high.
The men were mounted, five to a rank, seven ranks. Their horses, roweled by big Chihuahua spurs, curveted restlessly. The rim of the canyon was purple, shimmering, in the distance. Beside Crystal, Meredith sucked in his breath. “Jesus!” he said.
Then, except for the screaming, the morning was very silent.
Hernandez brought down his hand.
Howling, whooping, shouting, the riders spurred, lashed their horses. The animals galloped, stretched into a dead run.
The thunder of their hooves as they made straight for Sam Delaney’s head drowned out his voice.
Now the riders were almost on Delaney. The swirling dust obscured it all. Then they had swept across, each of them jockeying, fighting, for position, each wanting to be the one whose mount performed the execution, crushed the skull. They galloped on across the flat; a wind blew up, swirled the dust.
And then they were all aware that Delaney was still screaming.
What protruded from the ground out there, from the hole he had been made to dig himself, was a bloody mask. And yet, it was still alive, and the sounds it made were terrible in the sunlit morning. Fargo looked at Crystal. She sat coolly, a faint smile on her lips. Meredith was less impassive; his face was pale, sweating.
The riders pulled up, reined around, fought for position again. Then they were pounding back toward Hernandez, Fargo, Crystal and Meredith. They bent low, rowels lashing, sombreros flying at the end of throat-latches. Like a cavalry charge, they made straight for Delaney’s head.
This time, when the dust cleared, there was nothing left of it. Nothing at all.
And the screaming had stopped.
Crystal said quietly, “So long, Sam old boy.” Her voice was derisive.
Whooping and laughing, the riders pulled up, milled around; and tequila bottles gleamed in the sun as they drank. Then, lashing their mounts, they raced each other back to the mine.
“This is something for you to remember, Senor Fargo,” Hernandez said. “If you fail to prove trustworthy, you will also end so; I promise you.”
“I hope I’m around to watch,” Crystal said, as they rode toward the mine.
“For God’s sake,” Meredith said. He was obviously shaken by Delaney’s execution.
They reached the headquarters house. Hernandez swung down. “Come,” he said to Meredith and Fargo. They dismounted and followed him into the office, while Crystal went to her room—what had been the room she had shared with her husband.
In the office, Hernandez sat down in Delaney’s swivel chair, propped a booted, spurred foot on Delaney’s roll top desk, and said nothing for a moment as he looked at Fargo through slitted eyes. Then he brought his foot down off the desk with a clank of spurs.
“You killed Rodriguez,” he said. “That you can fight, there is no doubt. Meredith says you are an excellent, experienced soldier; and I can use such a man. Villa also uses gringos and finds them satisfactory. Still…Still, I am not yet satisfied. You are too strong, too used to going your own way. Can I trust you?”
“You can if you pay me,” Fargo said. “Besides, I told you where the girl is, didn’t I?”
“But she has not yet been brought in. That has not been proved. She—” He broke off. There was the sound of booted feet on the porch; the front door swung open; footsteps and spur jingling in the corridor.
“Let me go, you pigs!” a woman’s voice screamed.
Instinctively,
Fargo’s hands clenched. Juanita. They had found her, all right. A fist hammered at the office door. Hernandez quickly jerked it open, and, struggling and kicking, Juanita was pushed inside by four soldiers. The red blouse had been ripped all the way down the front; her breasts were naked and bruised. One of the men rubbed bleeding claw marks on his face. “Here she is, General. She put up a fight like a panther.”
But Juanita wasn’t fighting any more. At the sight of Fargo, she had gone suddenly rigid. Her eyes met his, and her lips formed a single, whispered word—his name. “You’re alive,” she murmured. ‘They didn’t kill you,”
“No,” Fargo said.
She licked her lips, looking with terror from Meredith to Hernandez. “Then for God’s sake, help me,” she whispered.
Fargo drew in a long breath. He kept his eyes steadily on her. “I can’t help you,” he said. “You belong to Hernandez now.”
Hernandez chuckled at his reply. ‘That’s right, chiquita. You’re mine, now. Until I’m through with you, anyhow; then you become the general property of the army.” He looked at Fargo. “So you told the truth. She was there. This puts a different light on things.”
He turned to Juanita and touched her. She flinched. Coldly, like a man judging a horse, he ran his hands over her. But she was looking past him, to Fargo. “You…you told him where I was. You sent those men for me.”
Fargo only nodded. He did not turn his eyes away from the look of grief and hatred that suddenly twisted her face.
Suddenly, across Fernandez’s shoulder, she spat at him. The spittle hit him on the cheek. He wiped it off with the back of his hand.
Hernandez laughed and turned to Fargo. “Well, amigo, I think I have made my decision now. In many ways, you have still to prove yourself, but you’ve proved yourself in every way you could so far.” He went to a closet, opened it, and when he turned from it, he held Fargo’s gear in his hands. “Here are your weapons. You will take Antonio’s place. But—” Some of the laughter went out of his obsidian eyes “—you will still, for the time being, be watched. You had best mind your step. You can’t, if you decide to betray me, fight all of my men. And you are not to leave this end of the canyon unless you have a pass from me. If you try it, you shall be shot.”